Journey to Enchantment (40 page)

“By all means,” said Prudence with an indifferent shrug.

Hurrying downstairs, the host crossed the vestibule just as the gentleman who had been snoozing there wandered from his corner, yawning. He was a large, florid-featured man, with small hard eyes and a lower lip that drooped petulantly. “Did I hear someone say that young Delavale has come here?” he enquired.

The host, a garrulous individual, waited to admit this was so. “And travels with his affianced bride. A rare pretty lady, if I may say so.”

“Is that a fact? Egad, but his family will be overjoyed. He was given up for dead a year since. The Jacobite business, y'know.”

“Good gracious me. I thought he looked rather wan. What a happy homecoming lies ahead of the poor gentleman. Well, if you will excuse me, sir, I've to find him a room, and a pickle I'm in, for it means putting off someone else, but it's more than I dare do to fob off a earl, or whatever he is, with a small back room.”

“A baron,” said the portly guest absently. “And he may have my room.”

Startled, the host exclaimed, “No, do you mean to leave us so soon, Mr. Beasley? I'd thought you planned to overnight. I hopes as nothing has upset you here. If I can make things right—”

“No, no, my good fellow,” said Thomas Beasley with an affability that would have caused several of his acquaintances no little astonishment. “Truth is, I interrupted my journey because I was feeling out of sorts. Stomach, y'know. Feeling better now—thanks to your good food, I've no doubt. So I think I'll push on. Must be in London tomorrow.”

He reiterated his delight with The Black Lion, and everything about it, and sent a maid to tell his valet to pack at once. Directing his steps stablewards, he paused and called softly, “Oh, by the bye, be a good fellow and do not mention my name to his lordship. I fancy he means to surprise us all, and I'd not wish to spoil things for him. Especially in view of his, er”—he winked, man-to-man fashion—“his betrothed.”

Somewhat taken aback, the host agreed and watched Mr. Beasley saunter into the outer sunshine. So that lovely little damsel was
not
the future Lady Delavale. It would explain why there had been no crest on the door of that shabby carriage and why my lord had simply signed the register as Geoffrey Delavale and party. No wonder the girl had been so red in the face. He frowned, his honest heart troubled to have hanky-panky dealings in his house. Still, with the Quality one had to be careful. Sighing, he went into his own quarters to tell his good wife that they'd have a baron under the roof tonight. The rest of the tale could wait until milor' had taken himself and his lightskirt off. And the charges, he thought grimly, would reflect the price of sin!

Meanwhile, with a briskness foreign to his nature, Thomas Beasley crossed the yard and went into the dim fragrance of the stables. Here, some moments later, his valet found him, with ostlers scurrying to pole up a team to a luxurious travelling coach.

“I thought the maid must have made an error, sir,” murmured the valet.

Taking care to keep out of sight of the inn windows, Beasley said irritably, “Did she not tell you to pack up and bring the bags down here?”

“Yes, sir. But I'd understood we was to stay here tonight, and—”

“I suppose I may change my mind,” said his employer arctically. “Perhaps you would oblige me by hastening. I want to be away within ten minutes! Well, never stand there, gawking!
Move,
damn you!”

The valet ran.

Within the prescribed time, Mr. Beasley was seated in his speeding coach. At the crossroads, the direction
To London
was on the sign pointing to the east. Mr. Beasley's coachman did not turn his team to the right, however, but continued northwards on the road that led to Chippenham and, eventually, to Oxfordshire.

*   *   *

As soon as the host closed the parlour door, Delavale turned to Prudence. Her nose had an upward tilt, her vivid mouth drooped at the corners, her brows arched with studied nonchalance. He reached for her hand. “Little lass, I know—”

She pulled away and dropped her reticule on the sofa. “La, sir, but I believe you. Certain it is that you know more than I do! I vow, you've more identities than a bird has feathers.” She sat down in a high-backed chair and arranged her draperies meticulously. “My
lord,
no less! I canna wonder ye concealed it frae me. Ye likely feared I'd be drrropping the handkerchief did I suspect ye'd a title tae be captured!”

He flushed darkly. “As if I would think so of you. And I did not conceal it from you, exactly. Elizabeth was so repulsed by Thad's title, and—”

“Really?” Despite the frigid interruption, hope had begun to burgeon in her breast. Was it possible that he'd fancied she would refuse him for fear of having to take on the duties of a baroness? Her accent less noticeable, she asked airily, “Why should it matter to me whether or not you have a title? You need be bothered wi' me no longer once you've conveyed me to my aunt's house.”

She gave a gasp as she was jerked from the chair and slightly shaken. His eyes glinting with anger, he grated, “Gad, Prue, but I could throttle you when you talk so. Of course you are not a bother! And before I take you to your aunt's home I want to show you Highview, and…”

She was looking up at him in frightened fashion, all great eyes and shrinking femininity, and his words died away, the anger in his face replaced by a tenderness that made her heart leap. She said quaveringly, “Please—do not throttle me … Geoffrey.”

“My darling…” he whispered, and pulled her into his arms.

She surrendered quite willingly to his brutality, but if she was not throttled when he raised his head at length, she was certainly breathless and considerably crushed. “Oh, Geoffrey … Geoffrey…” she murmured, lying limply in his embrace.

“My dainty Scots beauty,” he responded, pressing kisses into her curls.

She stroked his sleeve lovingly. “If you take me to Highview, whatever will your family think?”

“They may think what they will, much I care!” After several more kisses, however, he added thoughtfully, “Of course, I shall have to find you a maid before we go. It would never do for you to drive up without one.”

This struck her as ridiculous, in view of all their desperate journeying with no thought of maids or chaperones. She giggled, and asked, “Would your lady aunt be very shocked?”

Her cheek was nestled against his cravat, wherefore she did not see his face become set and grim. He said, “Oh, very. You will find her quite a different article to Mrs. MacTavish, or the ladies you have known.”

She tensed, and a tiny frown tugged at her brows. “Shall I? I suppose they are very grand and will fancy me a proper country bumpkin.”

It was said with the sure knowledge that he would immediately deny such snobbery. Geoffrey, however, with half his mind on the deadly cypher still residing in his waistcoat pocket, and the other half on his predatory relations, replied absently, “Never fear, Prue. With some proper clothes, the maid will be able to make you appear a grand lady, also.”

Her eyes widened. She left his arms and wandered across the room to pause beside an occasional table and stare blindly at the feather duster some flurried housemaid had accidentally left there. “Do you really think a maid can work such a transformation?” she asked, her hands clenching.

He took out the cypher and stared down at it. He must find a better place of concealment than his pocket. “Oh, yes. If we find one who is very well trained.”

Very—well—
trained?
Prudence, beginning to breathe rapidly, took up the little duster and gripped it until her knuckles whitened. Did the man fancy her unable properly to manipulate knife and fork, perhaps? “How nice it will be,” she said, her white teeth flashing in a glittering smile, “when I learn to go on in a well-bred way.”

He folded the cypher and put it in the back compartment of his watch, then glanced at the hour. Two o'clock almost. Time yet, if he left at once. “What? Oh, yes, very nice,” he agreed disastrously.

Gritting her teeth, she went on, “To be demure and gently spoken, and mannerly—like an English lady.”

“Just so,” he said, tucking his watch in his pocket and crossing to her.

Prudence spun around, gripping her duster savagely, and Delavale recoiled from the fury that glared from her narrowed eyes.

“Horrid, high-in-the-instep, opinionated
Sassenach,
” she snarled. “Little wonder ye were ashamed tae introduce this savage baggage tae yer fine-feathered friend!”

“Wh-what? Prudence, I promise you—”

“Aye—that ye do! Promises and—and insincere speeches and vows of undying love that mean nae more t'ye than any commonplace!”

He paled, and his dark brows drew down. “Now just one moment, if y'please, ma'am—”

“I dinna please,” she declared, stamping her tiny foot at him. “So there's nae call fer ye tae waste yer aristocratic breath on a wee bit Scots lassie wi' not a dram o' culture or refinement in her entire uncouth person!”

“What in the deuce are you so in the boughs about? If it is on account of my title—”

“Oh, pish for your silly title—much I care for't! Did ye fancy t'would bring me grovelling tae me knees in humility before your fine worship?”

Stung, Delavale stalked to stand before the infuriated girl. “If
ever
I heard such unmitigated balderdash! I think I have never puffed off my consequence to you—or anyone else for that matter.” She thrust her lower lip out at him, but some of the wrath went out of her blue eyes and, his own eyes softening, he added a teasing, “Besides, from what I know of
you,
my lass, humility is not noticeable among your virtues. Courage, I'll admit, but—”

“Oooh!” snorted Prudence, inflamed again. “So I'm a bold, encroaching hussy, the noo!” She shook her duster at him as he stepped closer, thus producing a cloud of dust that caused him to move back hurriedly. “Well, ye need nae tremble, my lord Delavale! This Scots baggage”—she paused as he sneezed violently—“will nae cause ye the embarrassment o' being obliged tae introduce her vulgarity tae yer hoity-toity family!”

Snatching for his handkerchief, Delavale mopped at his eyes and growled an incensed, “You are behaving like—like”—another staggering sneeze—“a silly little girl. And for no—
Arroush!
No—cause. I could spank you and—” He mopped his eyes again and glared at her. “And should!”

“Do not
dare
to strike me!” She lifted her little duster again, but with less hostility, for he stood so close and dear, and he was so very cross that he was pale with it.

Delavale had no suspicion of the fact that she waited to be seized and crushed and kissed. And he ground out between his teeth, “I have never yet raised my hand against a lady, but 'fore God, you tempt me, madam!” He drew himself up to his full height and said with fine disdain, “I shall leave you to attempt to regain your composure. Good afternoon, Miss MacTavish.”

Prudence sank into a deep and mocking curtsey, quite forgetting that in one gracefully extended hand she clutched a worn feather duster.

Equally blind to this ludicrous finale, Delavale swore under his breath and, sneezing, left her.

*   *   *

Stuart MacLeod had supposed that since he and Delavale rode alone, it would be safe for him to venture a word or two. He discovered, however, that his words fell on deaf ears, the frowning man beside him not so much refusing to respond as seeming oblivious of his presence. Their pace had been furious at first, but just as MacLeod had been about to enter a plea for the sake of the horses, Delavale drew rein and slowed to a walk for the next half-mile before starting off again at a steady canter.

Not having the remotest notion of where they were, or whither they were bound, MacLeod took in his surroundings with interest. It was a bonnie country. Puny, but bonnie. They had ridden through serene fields and farmland, by winding lanes lined with hedgerows where wild flowers scented the air with their fragrance and trees threw a grateful shade across their way. The hamlets were a joy to the eye, with sturdy thatched cottages and carefully tended gardens, the brief and often single thoroughfare almost invariably boasting an inn on which MacLeod's gaze rested longingly. But Delavale had pressed on, ever in the same grim-lipped silence, until now, in late afternoon, they were riding through open country; a place of rounded rolling hills, mightily short of trees, thought MacLeod, and dotted here and there with flocks of sheep and shepherds whose friendly waves he returned, but which Delavale ignored.

Far ahead now rose the spires and chimneys of a town. MacLeod glanced at his companion's stern face. “Sir,” he said tentatively, “I'd nae interrupt yer glummery, but in aboot a minute or two, we'll ride smack intae yon troop.”

The words jolted Delavale from his absorption with the extraordinary tantrums of Miss Prudence MacTavish. In the near distance he caught a glimpse of red uniforms. “Good Gad!” he exclaimed, and with a remorseful glance at the Scot, “Mac, you should have rapped your claymore over my stupid head! Into that stand of trees! Fast!”

They entered the shade of the trees and proceeded with caution. At the brow of the hill the birches petered out. Fortunately, the troopers were riding off to the south, and there were no more in sight. The experience was a warning, however. Resuming their journey, Delavale kept his wits about him, which was as well; soon, they encountered several more straggling groups of military, two on foot and the others mounted. MacLeod pointed out a halted carriage with troopers inspecting the papers of the occupants, and the two men looked at each other, unhappily aware that they carried no identification that would satisfy the redcoats.